


Runner in the Night

by kimberquel (kimberly_a)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blindness, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-11 16:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimberly_a/pseuds/kimberquel
Summary: “Q?” Julia’s voice trembled now. “The ... the lightsareon.”Quentin turned his head toward her voice and asked slowly, “Then why can’t I see anything?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Season 4, but nobody died. Also, Alice and Quentin didn't get back together. Title taken from the extremely old song "Blinded by the Light."
> 
> This was written very quickly because I just had the idea in my head and needed to get it out. I expect to post the second part tomorrow.

Quentin woke slowly, but when he tried to move, he found one of his hands held in place. Someone was holding his hand. He opened his eyes and found himself in a dark room.

The hand holding his was soft, and as he stirred he felt the fingers intertwine with his. “Q!” Julia’s familiar voice said, and he could hear from her voice that she’d been crying.

“I’m okay,” he said groggily. “Just ... gimme a minute to wake up.” He took his hand from hers and rubbed both his eyes, then scrubbed his hand through his hair. “And turn on a light in here!” He sat up and realized he was fully clothed. “What happened?” He thought hard. The last thing he remembered was ... oh hell! “Are Penny and Alice okay?” He looked around again. “Jesus! Turn on the fucking light!”

“Q?” Julia’s voice trembled now. “The ... the lights _are_ on.”

Quentin turned his head toward her voice and asked slowly, “Then why can’t I see anything?”

“I ... I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a temporary side-effect? You were unconscious. You’ve been out for hours.” Her voice seemed to turn in another direction as she called out, “You guys! He’s awake!”

Quentin heard running feet. Then Alice’s voice, “Q! I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“Well, except that I’m apparently blind,” he griped.

“Um ... what?” Alice sounded shocked and upset.

Julia jumped in. “It’s probably just a temporary side-effect. You said there were bright lights after he cast his spell?”

“Yeah,” a man said, and Quentin recognized Penny’s voice. “I mean, he was in front of Alice and me when I got them out, but even from behind the two of them I could see how bright the light was.”

“It was like ... fireworks,” Alice said. “I mean, I only saw part of it over Q’s shoulder, but it was the brightest light I’d ever seen.”

“I ... sort of remember that,” Quentin mused. “I mean, I told Penny he would need to get us out of there quick...”

“Telepathically,” Penny clarified, interrupting him. “But yeah, he told me the plan.”

“Then I cast the spell and Penny got us out, and there was this, um, like incredible explosion of light from where I’d mended the mirror. I knew you couldn’t cast magic there, but I hadn’t expected that!”

“And then you collapsed,” Alice said, and he could hear in her voice that she was trying to stay strong in that way she always did. That was Alice, always trying to keep her emotions under control. He pictured her resolute face. “Penny and I got you out of there, and we’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

Julia interjected, “We were going to give you another couple hours before we took you to the hospital, or to Fogg or something.”

“What about my eyes?” Quentin asked. “Are you going to take me to the hospital about that?”

No one answered immediately, then Julia asked hesitantly, “Do you want us to take you to the hospital for it?”

“Hell no!” Quentin replied. “Let’s just ... like you said ... let’s wait and see if it’s temporary. Just ... I’m still pretty tired, so let me sleep it off. Julia, could you maybe get me some pyjamas so I don’t have to sleep in these jeans?”

Julia laughed, sounding relieved and almost happy. “I think I can manage that.”

* * *

Quentin had just started to drift off to sleep when he bolted upright in the bed so violently that the blankets slipped off and he heard them crumple softly to the floor. “Eliot!” he exclaimed, desperate. “Is Eliot ... I mean ... did he...”

He heard feet running again, then the soft warmth of Julia’s hand taking his once more. “Eliot is fine. Well, I mean, not fine. He’s in the hospital, recovering. Because, his stomach, you know...”

“Take me there,” Quentin demanded. “I don’t care if I’m fucking blind. I have to know he’s okay.”

“He’s okay,” Julia reassured him again, squeezing his hand.

“And he’s ... he’s really Eliot? It all worked? We got him back?”

Julia took his hand between both of hers again, and he knew she was trying to be comforting, but he was too worked up for that. “He’s really Eliot. Apparently bitching up a storm at the hospital. Just wait ‘til he hears you’re awake!”

“Have Penny take me there,” Quentin begged. “I have to see him. I mean ... not _see_ him, obviously. I just ... I have to know it’s him.”

“It is,” Julia repeated. “You don’t have to worry.”

A second later, Quentin felt something land on the bed beside him with a groan. “I hope you’re happy, dumb ass,” Margo’s voice said from somewhere nearby.

Several people spoke at once.

Julia’s voice cried, “Penny!” in obvious disapproval.

Penny exclaimed, “He insisted!”

And Eliot’s voice, right beside him in the bed, murmured, “Q!” And even though it was the quietest of the voices, it was the one Quentin heard reverberate in his head.

He turned his head toward it and asked softly, “Eliot?”

“The fucking moron insisted on coming. Said, and I quote, ‘I can heal from an axe to the stomach better with Q than in a fucking hospital.’” But she didn’t sound as angry as her words would indicate. In fact, she only sounded fond and worried.

Quentin felt a hand take his, and he knew it was Eliot. He’d held that hand a thousand times in Fillory, and he would know that touch anywhere. They clutched each other’s hands as if one of them might fall off a cliff if they didn’t hold tightly enough.

“I wish I could see you,” Quentin whispered.

“Maybe it’s best that you can’t,” Eliot replied, his voice grown dark and his grip on Quentin’s hand loosening. “I know that my face hasn’t exactly been your favorite thing to look at for the past several months.”

Quentin swallowed convulsively, remembering, but he couldn’t find anything to say to that. Then, eventually, he tightened his grip on Eliot’s hand and said, “You sound like you, and you feel like you. I know it’s you now, and that’s all I needed.”

Another long silence, Then Eliot proclaimed loftily, “Thank fuck there’s a king-size bed in this place, because I was, at one time, the high king of Fillory.”

“Until I usurped your throne,” Margo joked. “But I am not getting into that bed with the two of you. Been there, done that.” And Quentin could almost hear the smirk in her voice. He blushed.

“Now, Bambi, why do you always feel the need to throw that in the poor boy’s face every chance you get?” But he sounded amused.

“I threw more than that in his face. And so did you.” She was practically laughing now.

“Okay!” Quentin yelled. “Enough with the joking about the night which shall never be spoken of again!”

“I think I should probably leave.” Alice said, sounding as hurt as she’d been after the actual event. He heard quick footsteps walking away.

“Some bitches just don’t have a sense of humor,” Margo remarked dryly.

Quentin sighed. “Margo, you know that was cruel. I didn’t even know she was in the room.”

“Me? Cruel? Who would have thought? And Miss Priss needs to calm her tits. Shit went down, she needs to deal with it. It’s been ages ago. If you can’t joke about it now, then where’s the fucking fun in that?”

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Margo,” he ground out. “Sometimes it isn’t about fun. Sometimes it’s about not hurting other people’s feelings.”

“I hate to break up this absolute love fest of a conversation,” Eliot spoke up weakly, “but we’ve got one man here recovering from a major stomach wound and another trying to fight off some kind of hysterical blindness. Maybe we can all make friends after some sleepy time?”

Quentin turned toward Eliot’s voice again. “You want to sleep in the bed with me?”

Eliot sounded uncertain. “If that’s ... okay? I mean, it _is_ a big bed...”

Quentin reached out, sort of flailing his hand, and Eliot trapped it in his again. “It wouldn’t even have to be a big bed,” he replied quietly. “Just knowing you’re here makes everything okay.”

“I have to sleep on my back,” Eliot remarked hesitantly, “so I kind of take up a lot of room.”

“Not a problem,” Quentin assured him, then curled up on his side, as close to Eliot as he could get without hurting him, still clutching his hand. He felt someone put the blankets back on top of them, and then he fell asleep.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized, upon re-reading and seeing some comments, that I hadn’t made it clear enough in the previous chapter that everyone was assuming that Quentin’s blindness was temporary, which is why they were treating it so lightly. I’ve added a word here and there in that chapter to clarify. You probably don’t need to re-read that chapter to clarify, unless you want to.
> 
> Also, this turned from two chapters to three. Sorry about that.

Quentin woke slowly, but when he tried to move he found that his left arm was wrapped across a warm body and held in place by another arm on top of it. His legs were entwined with other pyjama-clad legs, as well. His head was pressed into hair that should have impeded his breathing but instead only made him feel safe and happy. It smelled like Eliot’s hair products, and Quentin groggily imagined Margo washing and styling Eliot’s hair for him while he was unable to bathe due to his wound. He knew who lay beside him.

Quentin felt Eliot’s arm move on his, stroking his skin gently. “I can tell you’re awake,” Eliot teased. “You snorted in my ear.” Quentin laughed.

Quentin stopped laughing when he opened his eyes, fully expecting to see Eliot’s regal profile in the morning sun. Instead he saw only darkness.

“I still can’t see,” he whispered, burying his face more deeply into Eliot’s comforting hair.

“Hey,” Eliot said, his hand stroking Quentin’s arm more firmly now, as his other hand rose to card through Quentin’s hair where it hid his face from this world of darkness. “Hey,” Eliot repeated. “We don’t know yet. It still might be temporary. Nobody’s ever done this before … saving the world with minor mending and causing the mirror world to basically explode. There isn’t really any precedent, you know.”

Quentin squeezed Eliot gently and asked quietly, “How are you feeling?”

“Like some motherfucking bitch shoved an axe into my stomach,” Eliot joked.

“The same motherfucking bitch who’s been washing your hair?” Quentin asked.

Quentin could feel Eliot pull his head away, presumably to look at Quentin’s face, nearly hidden by his straight hair. “How in the hell would you know that?”

Quentin smiled and said, “Because you smell like you.” And he took a handful of Eliot’s hair to press to his face and take a deep breath. “For the first time in almost a year, you smell like you.”

Eliot cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that…”

“That wasn’t you,” Quentin hurried to reassure him.

“But it looked like me,” Eliot said hesitantly. “You had to look at that thing that looked like me, and you … you fought for me. Every day … they all told me … every day, you fought for me, to save me.” Eliot swallowed, and with his head so close, Quentin could not only hear it but almost feel it. “You looked at that … that thing … and you fought to keep it alive, because you believed in me.” Quentin could hear tears in Eliot’s voice, so he raised his hand from where Eliot had been stroking his arm, and he pressed a hand to Eliot’s cheek.

“I always believe in you, El. And I would do anything to save you. Always.” Then he felt like he’d revealed too much, too much after that day in the throne room when Eliot had said he didn’t choose him. Eliot didn’t want this much from Quentin.

Margo’s voice sounded from where Quentin guessed might be the doorway. “Well I thought I heard voices in here,” she complained. “Care to share with the class? Still blind, or are you in here gazing at Eliot’s gorgeous face?”

“Still blind,” Quentin replied, and he imagined Margo’s disappointed expression. She acted as if she didn’t care about anything, but Quentin knew that in her heart she loved them all.

Well, maybe not Penny. Or Kady. Or Alice.

Okay, maybe just Eliot, Quentin, and Julia. And—he would never understand it—Josh.

“Well, that’s fucked up,” Margo remarked. “I thought maybe a night in bed with your true love would cure you of all ills. I thought maybe Eliot’s stomach would be all healed, too.” She raised the blankets and he felt her moving around, the sound of tape being removed. “Nope. Still a fucking mess.” He felt more moving around. Presumably she was replacing Eliot’s bandage.

“He’s not…” Quentin stammered.

“Oh, give it a rest, Coldwater,” Margo snapped. “We all know you’re completely gone on the fucking asshole, though after this past year I can’t imagine how you can still stand to even look at him.” She paused a long moment. “I mean…”

“I know what you mean,” Quentin said. “But he’s Eliot again. Even if I could see, I would know it was him.”

“Well the rest of us aren’t finding it so fucking easy,” Margo hissed. “He still looks like the fucking monster to me. To all of us.”

“But you’ve been washing his hair,” Quentin pointed out. “I can smell it.”

After a pause, Margo said quietly, “Well, somewhere in there, he’s still Eliot.”

“ _Everywhere_ in there he’s Eliot,” Quentin replied angrily. “He’s Eliot, and he’s been through hell, worse than anything any of us can understand, and he needs us.” This time it was Eliot who buried his head in Quentin’s shoulder. “Maybe I can see it more clearly because I can’t see his face, but it’s him. He fucking _needs_ you, Margo. You’ve always been there for him. Be there for him now, when he needs you the most.”

The bed moved, and Quentin guessed that Margo had sat on the other side. “El?” she said softly. But Eliot didn’t move his face from where it was pressed to Quentin’s shoulder, half buried in his hair. “El … I’m sorry. It’s just … it’s not easy. But I’m trying. I promise. We’re all trying.” Eliot nodded his head without moving away from Quentin.

The bed moved again, and Quentin assumed that Margo had stood up. “When you’re ready to talk, El, I’m here. I’ve missed you. So much.” Quentin heard the catch in her voice, and then rapid footsteps walking away.

Eliot didn’t move, keeping his head buried in Quentin’s hair, against his shoulder. They were both wearing pyjamas, so it wasn’t more intimate than Quentin could stand, but it was still more intimate than they’d been in a very long time.

“The monster used to touch me,” Quentin said quietly. Eliot jerked away. “Not like that,” Quentin reassured him quickly. “Just … he was weirdly fond of me … like a pet. So he touched me a lot. But it never felt like you. The minute I woke up, well, I mean, the minute I felt your hand, when Penny brought you here … I knew it was you. No one else could ever feel like you. Just the touch of your hand … I knew. I don’t know how they can doubt it.”

Eliot sighed heavily, then flinched. Apparently his wound was still tender. “They saw a monster for months, Q. I don’t blame them.” He sounded so deeply unhappy that Quentin couldn’t help wrapping his arm around him again. Gently, though, not wanting to cause him pain.

“I know it’s you, El. I never doubted it for a second. I might not be able to see you, but I can feel your hands and smell your skin and hear the sound of your voice, and you are nothing like that monster, El. Nothing like that monster at all. I don’t have to be able to see to know that.”

“It would be nice if you _could_ see, though,” Eliot joked.

“Well, yeah. I keep hoping that’s going to just suddenly happen, you know?”

“I know. Me, too.”

“What if…” Quentin stammered hesitantly, “what if it never comes back? What if I’m like this forever?”

Eliot stroked his hair away from his face, his hand gentle, and said, “You’re still you, Q. Everything in there is still Q. You’re Q, and you’ve been through hell, and I will do anything to be there for you. Always.”

Quentin felt tears on his cheeks, and Eliot wiped them away with tender movements of his fingers. “Don’t cry, Q. Don’t cry. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

“Speaking of which,” Eliot said, sounding more formal, more serious, and Quentin felt nervous. “I have something I need to tell you. When I was stuck inside that monster, I … had some realizations. And I need to tell you something.”

Quentin didn’t like the sound of this. “You don’t need to tell me anything, El. I know it must have been hell for you in there, and you don’t have to tell me about any of it.”

“But this is important,” Eliot insisted. “I had a realization about … it was about you, Quentin. And I promised myself when I was in there that I would stop being such a coward, and I would tell you the truth.” Quentin felt Eliot’s hand in his hair and braced himself for the worst.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this very fast, mostly just because I was enjoying it so much, so I hope some of you enjoy it, too. I hope there aren't too many typos or grammar mistakes since I wrote it so quickly and it had no beta.

Eliot wanted to go sit on the couch for this conversation, but Quentin absolutely refused to allow him out of the bed with that wound still so fresh, so they wedged some pillows under Eliot’s back to let them both sit up against the headboard, talking quietly, until finally Eliot got to the crucial part of the story. “And I realized that my most traumatic … most repressed memory … Q … it was that talk we had in the throne room…”

Now Quentin felt like _he_ was the one who’d gotten an axe to the gut. “Oh fuck, El! I’m so sorry! I never should have … I just thought … I know I was wrong … um … obviously wrong … but I thought…”

Eliot made a ridiculously imperial kind of hand gesture, always a king. Wait … did Quentin actually see that movement? He must have imagined it. “Shut the fuck up, Q! It wasn’t a traumatic memory because of what _you_ said. It was traumatic because of what _I_ said.”

Quentin, brought up short, stopped talking in the middle of his stammering apology. “Um … what?”

“You were so brave, Q. So brave to say what you did, to put your heart out there and ask me to give us a chance … and I’ve never been brave like that. I didn’t even know how, until you showed me.” Eliot paused as if working up his courage. “But I was so afraid, Q, so afraid that I’d fuck it up, and I’d lose everything, lose your friendship, lose you in my life, because I’m so fucked up and I don’t know how to do relationships…”

Quentin interrupted him. “You did a fucking relationship for 50 years, El!”

“I know!” Eliot shouted. “I know! But that was in Fillory! You didn’t have any other choices then!”

“I had Arielle,” Quentin replied.

“And we made that work. She was sweet and loving and we made it work … but … Q … it was a Fillory thing. You were stuck with me and that stupid mosaic, so you stayed with me even though you wanted … her.” He twisted his hands together in his lap, below the wound. “It would never work here. You could never have me and … someone else … at the same time.” He paused, and Quentin bit his tongue, not wanting to interrupt when Eliot seemed to be saying something so deeply emotional. Eliot glanced at him, Quentin could actually see that even if only hazily, then looked away. “To be honest, Q, I … I didn’t really want it with Arielle. And I wouldn’t want it here.” He took a deep breath and flinched again at the pain in his stomach wound. “If I’m brutally, completely honest, Q, I would have wanted you all to myself. I know it’s stupid: the famously and illustriously debauched Eliot Waugh wanting fucking monogamy after he’s sucked off half the guys at Brakebills, but…”

“It’s not stupid, El,” Quentin interrupted him. He was definitely seeing light and shadow now, even if only vaguely. He kept his eyes where he thought Eliot’s might be until finally that averted face turned to look at him. “It could have been just us … even in Fillory … if I knew you wanted that.”

“But then we wouldn’t have had those years with Arielle, and we wouldn’t have had Teddy,” Eliot pointed out.

Quentin smiled at him. “Yeah. And those were good. I’m glad we had them in our life. But … I don’t … I don’t need more than you … you know. Um … I mean … if you still wanted…”

Eliot stopped his words with a kiss this time, instead of some stupid regal gesture. Their lips met gently until Eliot murmured, “Ow,” against Quentin’s lips.

“You fucking moron! What are you doing leaning over like that?”

“Kissing you, you idiot,” Eliot replied testily. But Quentin pushed him back onto the pile of pillows and got him situated so that his wound wasn’t being twisted anymore. He was definitely seeing the paleness of the pillows now, but he was afraid to say anything to get Eliot’s hopes up. And, anyway, they were kind of in the middle of something here.

Quentin smirked at him. “You’re just going to have to let me drive.” Eliot probably rolled his eyes, but any smart remark he might have been planning to say was lost in the kiss Quentin pressed to his mouth with warm, eager lips. Quentin pulled away for a moment, though Eliot’s lips tried to follow. “I’ve been wanting to do that since Fillory,” he confessed with pink high on his cheeks. “Even when you were possessed by the monster, I knew _my_ Eliot was still in there, and I wanted to get him back, and I wanted to kiss him … you … the real Eliot … I wanted to kiss you.”

“Then why did you stop just now?” Eliot asked, obviously frustrated at his own immobility. And then Quentin stopped stopping.

* * *

Some time later, Margo ganged up on Quentin with Eliot and convinced them to all move out to the couch so they could watch tv. Quentin must have fallen asleep on the sofa, but as he woke he felt Eliot’s head in his lap, that wavy hair twined in his fingers, and it made him feel safe. He blinked his eyes open, and thought he must be hallucinating. On the television, a small man wearing a red suit was … dancing … in front of red curtains … and then he started talking in some strange language. Quentin heard Margo, somewhere far to his left, perhaps on the other end of the sofa, and he remembered what she had said about having difficulty adjusting to Eliot’s return. It made him sad. She marveled, “Somebody was taking some serious shit when they came up with this fucking show.”

“What the hell _is_ that?” Quentin asked, still half asleep.

And suddenly the entire room was in motion. Two voices at once, Margo and Eliot. “Can you see the tv?” That one was Margo. And the other one was pretty obvious, because Eliot had sat up and grabbed Quentin by the shoulders, moving to crouch in front of him with no regard to his wound whatsoever. “Can you see me, Q?” And yes, Quentin could could see Eliot’s face in the dim lighting, his eyes wide and hair an unruly disaster.

“Your hair is so messy,” Quentin mumbled, and then he reached out to run his hands through it again.

Eliot laughed on a sob. “My mind hasn’t been devoted to elegant grooming lately. I’ve been a bit distracted.” He framed Quentin’s face with his hands. “God! You can really see me?”

“Well, it’s kind of dark in here,” Quentin admitted. “Is that my eyes?”

Margo ran to the lamp, exclaiming, “No! We turned down the lights to watch this weird tv show.” And suddenly the room was brightly lit, and Quentin squinted against the brilliance.

And then Eliot’s face was there in front of him, Margo hovering in the background. A moment later, Jules appeared beside Margo, but Quentin barely saw her. “Hey guys,” he smiled, but he never looked away from Eliot’s face smiling back at him. Eliot’s eyes—really Eliot’s eyes, with the real Eliot behind them—for the first time in so long.

“I think these two boys would appreciate a bit of time alone,” Margo said dryly. “We can go to this divine little shoe store I know in Florence.”

“But Q…” Jules began to say.

“Maybe stay in Italy a day or two,” Margo suggested. “Maybe a week.”

She laughed when Jules glanced at Quentin and Eliot and replied, “Oh.”

“Love you, Jules,” Quentin said distractedly, “but I’d kind of like to talk to Eliot.”

“Among other things,” Margo teased.

“Goodbye Margo,” Eliot said without his eyes leaving Quentin’s.

“Have fun, kids,” Margo cooed, and Quentin saw her wiggle her fingers in a goodbye gesture before she and Julia vanished.

* * *

Quentin helped Eliot back to the bed so they could lie side by side without causing Eliot too much pain. “It’s you,” Quentin breathed. “I mean, I knew it was you … but I’ve missed your eyes so much. I didn’t want to say it, but I was so afraid I’d never get to see them again.”

Eliot shifted against the pillows and Quentin worried that he might be uncomfortable, but Eliot waved his hands away when he moved to adjust them. “I’m glad you got your sight back, Q. I mean, obviously, for the obvious reasons, but also because there’s something important I wanted to talk to you about, and I felt like I owed it to you to look you in the eyes while I said it.”

Quentin could feel his lips turning down at the corners as he wondered what the fuck could be more serious and important than what they’d already discussed. “But … um … we already talked about the whole thing. I … didn’t we work it out?”

Eliot gave him a reassuring smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes looked sad. “Don’t,” Quentin said. “We’re good now, right? Anything else, you don’t have to tell me. I’m happy, El. Can’t we just be happy for a while?” He knew he was begging, but he didn’t care.

Eliot looked pained, but not from his stomach. From his heart. Quentin closed his eyes, because he didn’t want to have to look at Eliot when he said this, whatever it was. But Eliot wouldn’t be stopped. “I don’t know if you were really listening to me, Q. You have this tendency to get lost in your own brain sometimes, as we both know. But I told you that … our conversation in the throne room, when you asked me to give us a chance and I … I rejected you … that was my most traumatic, most repressed memory. You heard me say that, I’m fairly certain.”

Quentin opened his eyes, confused. “Well, yeah, but you explained.”

“But don’t you get what that means, Q? Repressed? It means I didn’t have to deal with the emotional fall-out from that conversation, but _you_ did.” This time it was Eliot who closed his eyes for a moment, his mouth turned down at the corners before he forced himself to continue. “I left you alone to deal with that pain, the pain I had caused, and I just gave myself a little vacation so I didn’t have to feel any of it. And then, to top it all off, I got myself possessed by a fucking monster that basically tortured you—okay not physically but emotionally—for months with my face, and you … holy fucking … Q, you fought for me. I rejected you, let myself forget about it, and still you _fought_ for me, thinking that I didn’t want you.” His eyes glistened with possible tears, but Quentin knew he would never let them fall. Not Eliot. “You still fought so fucking hard, Q. I didn’t even need everyone to tell me how hard you fought, because I know you, and I knew how you felt. Even without that conversation in the throne room, just remembering our time in Fillory, I knew how you still felt, and I knew you would have killed gods and monsters to save me, that you wouldn’t let them do anything to hurt me if there was any way you could put yourself in the way instead, even though you thought I didn’t want you.” And a tear did fall now, gliding slowly down Eliot’s cheek. “Because I knew you loved me that much. And I was such a fucking coward, Q, to make you deal with that alone, before the monster, during the monster, just … _I_ was the fucking monster, Q, doing all that to you, after that day in the throne room.”

Quentin placed his hand on the side of Eliot’s face, stopping the path of that tear, and gently turned him so that their eyes met again. “You would have done the same for me, El.”

“Did you miss the part where I repressed my fucking memories and left you in excruciating emotional pain all alone?”

“Well, ‘excruciating’ may be giving yourself more credit than you’re worth,” Quentin smirked.

“Oh, fuck you,” Eliot laughed, shoving Quentin so that he fell over, chuckling.

“I heard you, El,” Quentin said seriously, looking deeply into Eliot’s eyes.. “And you know me well, but I know you, too. And you had to run away from that, from that conversation in the throne room. The great Eliot Waugh … wanting all that with nerdy loser Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot tried to interrupt him, but Quentin shushed him. “But if it had been _me_ possessed by that monster, El, you would have fought just as hard for me as I fought for you. I don’t doubt that for a single second. Because I do know you. And I love you. And I know you love me. I know how much you love me. And you would have fucking fought just as fucking hard as I did, whether you’d repressed the memory or not. Because I know you loved me then, too.”

Eliot turned to gaze at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Even if I had repressed the memory? You believe I would have fought for you like that?”

“I know it,” Quentin said, then leaned up on his elbow so he could reach Eliot’s lips again. He kissed him softly. “I know it, El, because even if you’d repressed the memory, you still loved me.”

Eliot shook his head in wonderment. “That’s why you’re the brave one, Q. It takes a brave man, or maybe a fool, to believe in me that much.”

“Maybe I’m both?” Quentin grinned.

“Maybe you’re both. Maybe I can be, too.”

* * *

As they were falling asleep, Eliot murmured in the bedroom where Quentin no longer saw only darkness but now a shadowy bedroom surrounding them. “If you had to find _your_ most traumatic, most repressed memory, Q, what do you think it might be?”

Quentin thought for a long sleepy moment.

“To be honest, I think it might be letting you get away with that shit in the throne room that day,” He surprised a quiet laugh from Eliot. “I should have known better. I let my own shitty self-esteem issues get in the way of how much I trusted you. I should have trusted you enough to know that you were feeding me a line of bullshit. I know you love me now, and I knew you loved me then, and I should have called you on it. But I was too scared. So I wish I had been braver, brave enough to stand up to you.”

“You’re the bravest person I know, Q, but in that throne room we were both a couple of idiots.”

“So if we had that conversation to do over again, we’d _both_ tell you you were full of shit,” Quentin grinned.

“Pretty much,” Eliot agreed, and they both drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you liked it! I'm still pretty new to this fandom, so a little encouragement goes a long way.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [@letstrytobekind](https://twitter.com/letstrytobekind) on Twitter, where I tweet about various stuff, including The Magicians. I also hang out in the [Queliot Fans](https://www.facebook.com/groups/250053952429845/) group on Facebook.


End file.
